


Equations

by inkyopolis



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Office, F/M, Fantasizing, Glory Hole, M/M, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-21
Updated: 2017-12-12
Packaged: 2018-11-03 02:54:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10958169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkyopolis/pseuds/inkyopolis
Summary: Captor knows your trading firm, Ampora Futures, is in the soup right now. However, the chief programmer-slash-mathematician has agreed to focus his presentation for the board of directors on long-term potential growth rather than the short-term results. Thankfully, it didn’t take much convincing to talk him into it. In fact, if you remember correctly, you simply said “do it or I’ll fire you,” and he agreed.If only things had stayed that simple.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hello to anyone reading this. i'm still hoping to continue work on this story, but right now it's on a temporary hiatus.

 You are really getting tired of listening to this lisping asshole drone on.

Out of your entire stable of savant mathematicians, Captor is the most socially-adept. This is really saying something, you think.

You flick your Montblanc fountain pen back and forth between your index and middle finger. It has a nice, satisfying weight to it. The kind of pen that says, "Yes, I sign my company's contracts with this, but if I wanted to, I could stab you in the face and when the doctor removed it, he would say, 'That's a very nice pen you have embedded in your eye socket.'"

Captor continues, "The ris-thk atth-ociated with the projected portfolio is-th that it may not pay the dividends-th that we are looking for in the thort-term, but it does appear like an opportune long-term sss-trategy."

' _Good God_ ,' you think, ' _All that education and no one could teach him how to form his fucking soft consonants._ '

You clear your throat and reposition yourself in the seat. You try to figure out if getting hit by a car would be more or less painful that these meetings. Currently, you are leaning towards less.

You glance over and read the board members' faces--the vapid ne'er do wells who get called in once a year to tell you all the things you are doing wrong as CEO. Like _they_ have a fucking clue. Half of them are probably thinking about their next vacation. When was the last time you had a vacation? Okay, there was that one at the beginning of the year, but it was with your kids, so there’s no way that counts.

You put your pen down and clench your fist, rubbing your thumb roughly against your index finger, like you’re trying to start a fire in your palm. You remind yourself that all that really matters is that someone gets up in front of them and _sounds_ convincingly intelligent. That, vicariously, makes _you_ intelligent. And hopefully that will serve as a distraction from the fact that you've been losing money hand over fist the past year.

You look back at Captor. He’s sweating noticeably.

You aren't sure your plan is working as intended.

Captor knows the company is in the soup right now, but agreed to focus his presentation on the long-term possibilities rather than the short-term results. It didn’t take much convincing. In fact, if you remember correctly he agreed pretty quickly after you said “do this or I’ll fire you.” But now you can't get past his physical appearance.

It reeks of failure.

Beyond the flop sweat, his suit, what you guess is probably his _good_ suit, hangs off of him like he is wearing a hand-me-down. It's never been tailored, probably something he picked up on discount. Or from a dumpster. Either seems plausible. You are a little amazed he owns a tie. Nevermind the fact it's a hideous yellow color that doesn't go with a tan blazer and checkered Oxford. Someone really needs to explain the basics of a wardrobe to him.

Not you of course, but _someone_.

As Captor turns around to motion towards the powerpoint, you notice... no. He _can't_ be that inept. You squint right above his belt line. Well, isn't that something. He's tucked his shirt into his underwear.

You shrink back in your seat and rub at your temple. This is... the engine of your company; the grand programming whiz who writes the code to help make buying and selling decisions quicker, better. With the elastic of his underwear peeking out over his waistband.

Just great.

"Th-o you thee, while the market th-ruggle-th to regain ground, we can pothition ourthelves thrategically to capitalithze on the volitility."

You glance around. Heads are nodding. You think about how rewarding it would be to detach some of those skulls from their necks and arrange them decoratively on your large mahogany office desk. Something to really impress visitors. 'Why yes, these _are_ the decomposing craniums of people who think they can run my company better than me!' you’d say with a wink and a smile.

You acknowledge that you are feeling a little aggressive today.

They are clapping now. God you could use a drink.

You clear your throat. "Thank you Mr. Captor. Gentleman, do you have any questions?"

The human asshole currency trader pipes up. "I've noticed in your recent reports that you've had a bad run of luck with losses in the bond market over the past six months. Is this a function of poor research data or poor management?"

Your blood boils. This little shit made a cool half billion boonbucks before he was 25, retired, and now just diddles around on the boards of multiple investment firms. You wonder what it would feel like to take a chunk of his neck out with your teeth.

Captor opens his mouth and begins to say something, but you interrupt, "I'll be reviewing some material related to that as part of my executive summary report this afternoon, so why don't we hold that question until later."

' _You sniveling toe-head fuck_ ,’ your eyes add.

You look back to Captor. He's a hoofbeast in the headlights. A hoofbeast in the headlights who tucked his _goddamn_ shirt into his _goddamn_ underwear.

You decide you really don't want him answering any questions that might pertain to your helmsmanship. Or really answering any questions. You look down at your watch. It's 11:45. "Well, we are running a bit behind," you lie, "so why don't we break here for lunch and resume at 2:00."

There's some grumbling, but an affirmative consensus forms.

"Good," you say, and immediately get up from your chair. You leave the room before anyone can say anything.

As you make your way to your office, your assistant stops you to give you a list of messages you missed.

"How's it going in there?" she asks.

You scowl.

"That good?" She smiles. She seems to enjoy watching you suffer.

You really could go a for a drink. Or seven. And a _very_ bloody steak.

"Vriska, can you get me a table for two at Angelo's for lunch?"

She winks at you. "Consider it done." In a flash, she's on the phone, "Hey A, it's Vris. Need a favor."

She's not the best assistant you've ever had--comes in late, leaves too early, and calls out too often. But she does have a certain unscrupulous way about her that's endearing. And everyone seems to owe her favors. You like that about her.

\------

"Name?"

"Ampora."

The host looks down at the registry. "Ah yes, two for lunch. Are you still waiting for the other member of your party?"

You give a faux-embarrassed shrug. "They called to say they are running late and, well, I'm in a bit of a crunch. I'd like to go ahead and be seated."

The host genuflects. "Of course sir, right this way."

He navigates you through the restaurant to a booth near the back. Not a prime location, but it'll do. You take a seat. A menu appears before you.

"Can I get you started with something to drink?"

"Dirty Martini, Grey Goose, one olive," you offer flatly, as you look over the cuts on the menu. ' _Kobe or Dry-Aged..._ ' you wonder.  

"Right away sir."

You are far too wound up and confrontational to be any good this afternoon. You need to get a hold of yourself.

You take a deep breath, trying to center. You remind yourself that you just have to let the board get a few licks in during the Q&A and they’ll feel like they’ve done what they are supposed to. That’s all you have to do. It’s all just a performance. That’s all you have to do, give a performance. That, and not blow a gasket. The last time that happened... well... you won't think about last time.

You pull out your phone and start flipping through it. It's partially for show. There never was any second member of your party. Out of all the stigmas in the world that you couldn't give two shits about, for some reason eating by yourself is still a sore spot. And you _hate_ the prospect of eating at the bar. It feels too desperate.

You wonder if your secretary has figured out your little restaurant trick. She's clever. She's also clever enough know when to keep her mouth shut. Sometimes.  

Your drink arrives. You look up at the waiter. He's handsome. High cheekbones. Black hair pulled back in a taut pony-tail. Obviously takes care of his skin. Seems obedient, or at least willing to take your drink order. That counts for a lot.

You smirk and take a sip of your drink.  

He smiles. "You ready to order sir?" he asks.

You wonder if it's a flirting smile, or just the smile of someone working for tips. "Filet, the dry-aged. Rare." You wonder how it would feel to use his ponytail as a handle while you fucked his face.

He nods his head and turns away.  

You decide that it's the smile of someone working for tips. What a shame.

You knock back the rest of your drink in a single gulp, the liquid warmth spreading through your empty belly like the embrace of a wood-burning stove on cold winter day. A delightful little chill runs down your spine.

You stir the ice of your drink around. You polished that off a bit quick didn't you? Oh well. There's more where that came from.  

You pull up the notes for your presentation on your phone. None of what's in the here is actually what you want to say. The entire board are useless fuckwads who get nervous the second the seas get a little choppy. The company's made it through worse before half of them even existed. And another thing. It is not _THE_ company. It is not _THEIR_ company. It is _YOUR_ company.

But of course, that would be impolitic to say those things. Again.

You gesture at a waiter walking by. "Another one of these." You hand her your rock glass.

She clears her throat, barely hiding her annoyance. "Of course sir. I'll have _your_ waiter bring another over right away."

You stare down at your screen. The words are there, but you can't hear yourself saying them. You can't visualize yourself being in the room.

You can't. _Fucking._ _Concentrate._  

The waiter--your waiter--comes back over with a second drink. He sets it down with a smile. "Your steak should be up in just a minute. Hope your friend gets here soon--going to miss the meal otherwise." He smiles again and you notice his pink of his lips, the soft way they glisten in the light. ' _Medium rare,_ ' you think.

Your left eyelid twitches involuntarily.  

It hits you like a ton of bricks. You know exactly where you’re going after lunch. And all you need is a few more drinks to help you get there.

\------

The unassuming little "bookstore" is only three blocks away from the restaurant. It was a pleasant discovery a few years ago, and frankly, you're a little amazed it's not been shut down. They must have some kind of pay-off arrangement with the local authorities. Probably for the best not to know though. You don’t ask any questions and neither do they.

The sidewalk is crowded mid-day. It's hot and the tall downtown buildings trap the heat radiating from the pavement. You’re sweating a bit as he navigate the sidewalk. You dodge a stroller, but over-correct and sway a bit in your stride. Okay, you admit to yourself, you might be a little buzzed. Not sloppy. Just enough to get done what needs to be done.

You look up and down the street as you get close, making sure there's no one you recognize around.

The coast is clear. You step in.

A wall of glossy porno mags meets your vision. Women in leather, ridiculous silicone breasts pushed together for the camera. Muscled men, oiled and erect. You pay these only a passing glance.

There's a large man behind the counter. Low-blood. You've seen him before. The owner most likely. You bet _he_ doesn't have to give reports to a board of directors.

"Five tokens."

He doesn't say anything, just rings up the transaction on the register. It displays B25.00.

You slide the cash across the counter. He takes it and slides the copper coins back.

You pocket them and head into the back of the shop. You pass two men on their way out. One has his arm around the other. Both are smiling, giggling, looking content with the world. You don't make eye contact as you push past them, through a swinging door.

There are eight stalls. If someone didn't know any better, they might assume that this was just a strange bathroom.

But of course, you know better.

The two stalls on the far right end have their doors closed. 'The happy couple,' you think. But on the other end, there's a stall with only one door closed.

Game-show lights flash in your head. ' _Step on down Mr. Ampora, you are today's grand-prize winner..._ '

You stroll into the stall adjacent to the single. Your heart skips a beat as you close the door and slide your tokens into the locking mechanism on the door. Crudely put, it’s a parking meter for getting your dick sucked. You are feeling a bit crude right now, you admit to yourself.

There's a circular hole drilled into the thin metal separating the two stalls. Duct-tape covers the edges so there's nothing sharp that might poke tender flesh. Four fingers poke through the portal into your side, curling up like a snake. It's a signal about who is going to play what role. Exactly the one you were hoping for.

There's an unwritten rule about talking at places like this. Instead the air is filled with the the slurps and smacks and moans of bodies in congress. It's disgusting. It's wonderful. It’s business.

The fingers are long and skinny with neatly trimmed nails. Always a good sign. Sure, you like having a place to get your knob anonymously polished, but you'd rather avoid getting a hummer from someone who doesn't take care of their hands, thank you very much.

For a brief second, you imagine seeing the blue fingernail polish your secretary uses on those fingers. Of course, she would never come to a place like this in a million years. Still, you can feel a rush of excitement course through you, just like the first drink.

Wordlessly, you unzip your dress pants and, at the sound, the fingers retreat back into their hobbit-hole. The cool air of the room feels nice against your hardness. It's been a while, hasn't it? No wonder you've been so pissy lately.

You guide your cock through the portal. A content moan comes from the other side of the divider. It makes you feel good, appreciated. A warm and gentle touch surrounds your shaft and slides it back and forth, stroking you slowly. The veins in your dick swell like a church chorus.You close your eyes and let out a deep sigh. This... this is absolutely how you needed to treat yourself today.  

A warm wet sensation flits over your cockhead, matched in time with the slow, rhythmic pumping. Your legs feel rubbery again, so you reach up and grab hold of the top of the stall's wall, helping to keep yourself upright. If you had your druthers, you'd like to just lay down on couch while you get worked on, but that would require a much more complicated setup. As what you are pretty sure is a tongue circles around the underside of your shaft, a shiver runs up your spine. _'He's working himself up to it,_ ' you think. You try to picture the creature on the other side of the divider. The soft and glistening pink lips of your waiter pop into your mind’s eye.

That'll do nicely.

You let out a soft moan, a signal things are going quite alright on your end of things, yes indeed. And then you are swallowed down. Somehow he's already taken two thirds of the way down your shaft, sucking hard. ‘ _Fuck that’s good._ ’ You bite your lower lip to keep from cursing. You wonder why you ever hesitated about coming here in the first place.  

There's spluttering noises from the other side now. He's moving up and down on you now, but can't seem to quite get you all in. God help him, he's trying though. ' _What a wonderful feeling to explore a stranger's skull from the inside_ ,' you think. That is one of the drawbacks of this particular setup. It's missing a certain je ne sais quoi about grabbing the back of your partner's head and forc… helping them down.

It’s such a pleasant feeling of control, of surrender to your will.

You press your forehead into the cool metal. Your mental image oscillates and swirls. It's your secretary--she's got the waiter by the ponytail and is pushing him down on you. She’s such a help.  

His lips are almost to your base and he must be almost knocking his head against the divider.  You can tell he's struggling--letting out choking sounds every couple of seconds. But he's not giving up, trying to suck in air around you as he gorges.

Your toes curl in your black Italian leather shoes. If you didn't have to wrap this up soon, you'd be trying to delay, trying to pull up all the repulsive mental images you can muster to put off the orgasm for just a few more minutes. Taxes. Dealing with your fuck-up kids. Roadkill. Anything to get a few more fleeting minutes of someone whose sole existence is focused on pleasuring you. Another time maybe. Instead, you decide to give in to the sensations crashing through your nervous system.

You knock on the divider, a signal you are getting close. There's a pause. He's figuring out what to do with this information. You wince. ' _Don't stop. Don't stop._ ' But then, like he can hear you telepathically, he rocks down on you and your whole body is floating on a cloud.

You picture tender lips pressed against your own, kissing your secretary as you rock your hips into the mouth of the waiter. Waves take over your body. Warm breath on your neck. Encouraging words. The scratch of scruff against your thigh. It's a blur, fantasies collapsing in on one another, like some kind of singularity.

Quakes ripple through your body like thunder. You cry out and give the divider a hard bang with your fist--not out of care to warn the receiving end, but because you can't fucking control it. Jegus. Jegus jegus jegus you needed this. You _deserved_ this. You buck your hips, trying to jam yourself further down his throat as you unload, but you can't push yourself any harder against the divider. You feel the muscles in his throat try to keep up, managing to swallow the first splash. It's heaven. But when the second hits, he gags hard and comes off you suddenly. And there you are, pulsing into the air.

‘ _No, goddammit, no!_ ’

You grit your teeth as you ride out the last few spurts into the void of nothingness, annoyed at this amateur-hour bullshit. It's bad form to pull off mid-orgasm. You can hear him coughing.

What you would do with that ponytail right now.

Instead, you clench the top of the divider as you buck your hips into the air, pulses dying off. Then, there's scrambling on the other side, and sudden warmth. He's licking you clean. You sigh. You are disappointed, but, this is still a nice touch--an apology maybe. Maybe he's inexperienced. Maybe's he's embarrassed he wasn't up to the task. ' _Gotta roll with the punches_ ,' you remind yourself. Like later today during Q&A.

Carefully, you pull back your cock through the portal and tuck yourself back into your pants. You look down at the hole in the wall. There's nothing coming through--no expectation of reciprocity. That's good because you rarely, if ever, feel like returning the favor. Not that you're above sucking some cock, but truth be told, you would need to see his face. You need to see the acknowledgment in his eyes that you are in the one in charge of the situation.

As you adjust yourself back into position, you catch sight of the floor. There's a small pool of cum on the tile. Not yours, you are pretty sure. You wonder if he came while sucking you off. The thought gives you a warm fuzzy feeling.

As you start towards the lock on the door, you notice the tips of shoes underneath the divider. The white tips of rubbery Converses. God those are ugly. ‘ _Rubber,_ ’ you think. ‘ _What’s in the least bit appealing about rubber shoes?_ ’

Still, you can already feel a bounce in your step as you exit. Yes, you are starting to feel your head clear up, like a morning fog burning off with the sunrise.

It winds up being the best annual review you've given in the past three years. And with that, you've bought yourself one of the most expensive commodities. Time.

\------


	2. Chapter 2

The alarm clock goes off at 6:30 and it's like someone's firing off a goddamn cannon in your skull.

You grope blindly but manage to locate the offending object and mash ‘OFF.’ Squinting, you rub sandpaper sleep from your eyes. The bedroom is filled with an awful, skull-piercing glow. ‘ _Why is the sun so fucking eager,’_ you think, holding up a hand for shielding.

As you swing your legs over the side of the bed, you replay last night in your head. You remember getting home a bit after dark and feeling hungry. Your eldest nit-wit, Cronus, has been inhaling everything that’s not nailed down since he's been home from college. This left you picking over the scant remnants in the pantry. Anchovies and crackers. That’s all the little shit left you. At least the threat of grave bodily harm has kept  _dweedle-dum_ out of your liquor cabinet.

You worked your way through a few after-dinner-scotches and then started some bank-heist movie. The plot was taking forever to unfold, so you kept checking the overseas market numbers on your phone. Then you got up to make yourself another drink. Which one was this now? Five? Six? You try not to count them too closely these days. You remember looking up at the television screen, and there was... a gun-fight? That made you thirsty, so you got up and had another… and then... Well, things are a bit hazy after that. But, you woke up in your own bed and not on the couch, so that’s a good sign that you didn’t get too out of hand.

A few vertebrae give an audible - **pop** \- as you stand up and stretch. You yawn, and the sulfur stench of your own breath makes you wonder if some animal died in your throat.

‘ _Today’s going to be just wonderful,’_ you think bitterly, your skull throbbing with a dull ache.

You shed the layers like a snake as you amble into the shower. The warm water feels good, like a blanket hugging your body. You close your eyes and let the stream wash over you, wishing you could go back to sleep.

The annual board meeting has been a highly unnecessary distraction from the real work needing to get done. It’s meant pointless long hours for everyone.

Years ago, this didn’t phase you. But, as loathe as you are to admit it, you're getting older now and nothing’s gotten easier with time. Long gone are the days of buying and selling stock based on simple projections about how well a company would perform. Now, it’s about trying to predict how the  _market_ thinks a company will perform in the future, and then trying to play the market as a whole.

Of course, all of the other trading companies are  _also_ doing this, making things much more complicated. Everyone’s making guesses about how everyone else is making guesses. And then, well, then you can just keep adding layers upon layers, creating an ouroboros of guesses of guesses of guesses. And this is where your little entourage of savants comes into play.

At this point, everything is models. Models of carefully plotted mathematical projections about how the entire market might move. Models of all of the potential universes that could come into being if this or that happens. It requires special software, a near constant feed of up to the nano-second financial information, machine-learning algorithms trained on terrestrial and intergalactic news sources, and constant, careful tweaking. And, well, it's not that you don't understand computers exactly. You understand them in principle. It’s more that… well... this is what you pay other for. To deal with computers.

When your baby-faced savants start talking about new programming languages and APIs and the optimal sentiment analysis methodologies… it makes you feel... ‘ _old?’_ No. You push that thought away. ‘ _Annoyed.’_

Of course, there’s also the other way of doing business. The one you are far better at: getting a hold of information you shouldn’t have and then using it to your advantage. This used to be much more common practice. But of course now the feds have been cracking down on the practice. “Anti-competitive this” and “racketeering” that. But you can’t help it if people just… let things slip. And you are at good at making sure they get greased up enough to do so.

It’s really just a matter of not getting caught.

‘ _Life,’_ you think, ‘ _is just a matter of not getting caught.’_

You turn off the water and step out.

Toothbrush with toothpaste. Floss. Deodorant. Razor and shaving cream. After-shave. Mousse. Blow-dryer. Comb. Underwear. Undershirt. Black dress socks. Crisp freshly dry-cleaned white Oxford shirt with heavy starch. Purple italian handmade silk tie with small interlocking pattern. Solid gold tie bar. Charcoal wool three piece slim-fit suit with a simple and understated white silk pocket square. Black leather belt with gold buckle. Black calf leather loafers with an almond toe and gold-tone medallion formed into the art-deco styled logo of their maker. 18-carat gold dress watch with cream-colored face, solid gold Roman and baton indexes, and black lizard leather wrist strap with gold buckle. Three yellow gold rings on your left hand, two from your previous marriages, one you got for yourself for surviving them.

These are the things that make a morning.

These are the things that make a Dualscar.

Every workday for twenty-two years. Nine years at your father's company, and thirteen at your own.  

Left. Right. Left. Right.

Sometimes, you let yourself fantasize about what it would be like to be able to call out sick. To play hookey. But, of course, that's not what it means to be at the top. Being at the top of the totem pole means that you are simultaneously at the bottom. That's what people don't understand.

It's not a ladder. It's a circle.

You look in the mirror. It’s a strange man staring back. Bloodshot eyes, thin lips, gaunt and ghoulish. It’s someone wearing a shitty Dualscar suit.

You draw in a sharp breath through your nose and scowl into the mirror. The man on the other side scowls back.

' _Alright Orphaner, this is your ship and you are the only one who can sail it. It’s time to navigate some big fucking rocks._ '

\------

“Sammy, I’m not asking you to give me SoporCola’s earnings report early here. I’m just asking you what time Friday the report is going to hit the wire so that I can have my people ready to go.”

The voice on the other end of the line is stern and steady, “And I’m telling you D, I can’t give you that information.”

You groan. “Why are you guys being so tight-lipped about this? You’re killing me with this shit.”

“Corporate has been very clear about this. We can’t risk getting investigated by the exchange commission right now. I’d love to help you out here D, I really would, but my hands are tied.”

You even your tone, doing your best straight-shooter voice imitation, “Look, Sam, things here have been… well, they’ve been a little touch and go.” You pause, drum your fingers on the desk for a second and continue, “I’m not asking for an exact time, just, you know, morning or afternoon?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

There’s a long pause at the other end. He’s thinking something over. This is a good sign. It means you are about to get something.

He continues, “But… I can tell you that there’s already rumors that someone inside the company has been leaking preliminary earnings reports.”

“Oh…” you sigh.

 _This_ , sadly, is not new information. In fact, you know exactly who has been leaking the preliminary earnings report.

More precisely, your secretary does.

“Oh is right.” He lowers his voice in confidence. “Look, not for public consumption, but the exchange commission is watching us like a hawk right now. They think we’ve been leaking reports for a little while now and they’re trying to nail whoever is doing it.” He continues, “I’m sorry I can’t help you out on this D. I really am. Maybe next quarter if things aren’t under a microscope, you know?”

“Sure sure.” You wonder how many more dinners Sammy’s going to try to wring out of you before he’s able to give you something useful again. “Let’s catch up at St. Laurents over steaks sometime soon,” and you can hear the abject disappointment in your own voice.

Your mind flashes for an instant to the little post-lunch side-trip yesterday, the feeling of a warm and attentive mouth taking you in. For just a second, you picture Sammy on the other side.

You blink hard and push the thought away.

“Sounds good,” the voice on the other line is saying.

“Give my best to Brenda and the kids,” you reply and hang up.

After putting the phone back in its cradle, you stare at the entire contraption--not quite angry, not quite disappointed, just… unfocused. There’s too much going on right now and you’re letting yourself getting distracted.

You call your secretary. “Vriska, could you come in here for a moment?”

She’s there in a second. “What’s up?”

You rub your temples. “Remember how you… came across… that earnings statement?” you ask, deciding to leave out several of the more salacious details.

She nods.

“Your beau. He wouldn’t say anything about who he may have... shared... it with would he?’

“She.”

You blink, uncomprehending for a second. Then it clicks. That's a mental image to save for later. “Sorry, she.”

She smiles. “No.”

Vriska has a way of “finding” information. You try to be sure to never ask for names because plausible deniability is always important should anything ever make its way to court. For her contributions to the company (and to your pocketbook) she earns a yearly bonus nearly three times her actual salary.

“Good.” You think about it for a second, then add, “Good, good,” talking yourself into it. “Could you get me a coffee and an aspirin?”

She raises an eyebrow at you. “I thought you were trying to cut back.”

You narrow your eyes at her and she puts her hands up defensively. “Fine fine, just don’t take it out on me when your doctor gets on your case again.”

It’s true, he’s been after you to cut back on all the good things in life (not just coffee, see also: sodium, red meat, cigars, booze, etc. etc), but without it, you feel useless; unable to concentrate. And besides, the third cup of the morning is usually the moneymaker.

The leather bound day-planner--your bible--tells you your next meeting is with marketing to review a new set of ad mock-ups planned for human golfing magazines.

You detest having to advertise.

Five years ago, if someone hadn't heard of your company, they might as well have been living under a rock. But times have gotten tough, and Condesce Investments has been eating your goddamn lunch since they came on the scene. Which means, you have to try to regain market share, which means... advertising.

After that, you've got a meeting with... ah, wonderful, your unkempt programmer.

\------

The advertisements are surprisingly not horrendous. Destined for human magazines that circulate among the wealthy, the ads contain humans and a few trolls (humans never want to see too many trolls, makes them feel threatened, the marketers tell you) enjoying various relaxing activities--a massage at a spa, lounging by the pool, playing a round of golf. Typical pale nonsense. Below each, in an elegant and expensive looking font, "Freedom from worry" and your logo, the nested, cursive ‘Ampora’ with the italic ‘ _Futures’_ running underneath--the same one that adorns the outside of the office building.

You think the association between luxurious pale imagery and your company's logo works well. And more importantly, it will grab who it needs to grab: idiots who don't want to be bothered to have to think about their money--those who want to live the pampered life. How do they manage their wealth? They don't. They have people to take care of that. Their money makes money.

And it's true in a way. Their money makes money. It's just that you make sure to insert yourself in the middle, taking a nice fat cut for yourself. But right now, you're not even worried about the cut. You need to stop the bleeding--you need the capital coming in to make new investments--to try to recoup some of what you’ve lost.

You wonder how that would look as an advertisement. Your body on an operating table as doctors applied wads of cash to multiple lacerations. ' _Can we save him?_ ' a nurse asks the doctor. '  _That depends on how gullible these suckers are,_ ' the doctor responds.  

You approve the mock-ups. The ad buy is an expense you'd prefer not to have, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

You sip on the sludgy bottom of your coffee when your secretary buzzes you. Mr. Captor is here.

You run your hands through your hair and sigh. “Send him in,” you mutter.

He strides in a wrinkled black t-shirt and slacks, dressed like he's about to spend a lazy Sunday on the couch, not come to work. You grind your teeth. It might be loud enough for him to hear.

"Why don't you take a seat," you spit. The programmers have always bothered you. More often than not, they seem to operate by a different set of social rules, keeping odd hours and... shall we say... frustrating... hygiene habits. Under normal circumstances, those things wouldn’t bother you. If someone is going to be inferior, let them. It makes the social sort that much easier. But this is YOUR company and YOU should be the one setting the rules.

You clear your throat. "About your... performance... yesterday." You consider the skinny man, shifting in his seat, looking over you. It crosses your mind that he may have tucked his shirt into his underwear to get back at you for the threat you made to fire him. ' _Is he actually that clever?_ ' you wonder for a second. '  _No. No, he can't be._ ' You continue, “It was… sub-par.”

His face turns dour. "I did exactly what you as-th-ked me to. I focu-th-ed on the long-term possibilitie-th of the company rather than our short-term lo-sth-es."

You clear your throat, "You did in fact focus on the short-term as I asked." You bring your hands together, fingers interlacing. "So I will keep up my end of the bargain. You aren't fired. For now. But we need to have a frank discussion about your future."

"What-th your problem?"

You ball your fist. You don’t care for this tone of voice. You stretch your neck. It makes an audible  **click**  as tendons snap over bone. "My problem," you begin, "is that you have no polish. You showed up looking like you slept in a shelter."

"You brought me in here to cha-th-ice me about my appearan-th-e?"

You lean back in your chair. "I pay you well enough so that you can show up to a board meeting looking like you deserve to be here. Yesterday was unacceptable. Do better next time or there won't be a next time."

His cheeks flare red, the cords on his neck flaring out. "This company would be in the th-itter if it wasn't for me!"

You are a bit taken aback by this little outburst. "Really? And how much money has your trading algorithm made me in the past six months? Let me refresh your memory: somewhere around negative  **twenty-eight million fucking boonbucks**  . You ought to be  _licking my boots_ in thanks for keeping your sorry ass around."

He's up from his chair, now, arms reaching to sky as if pleading his case to the heavens. "There'th nothing wrong with the program. It'th not my fault the market is fucke-th!"

Part of you knows he's right. His software had been bringing in tidy sum just a year ago when the trans-planet economy had been going like gangbusters. But that all came crashing down after a round of import tax wars between the nationalized mining colonies. Things spiraled out of control in the bond-market, and now everything is a stagnant cesspool.

You draw in a deep breath, trying to center yourself. Curt, you spit, "I don't pay you to babysit software you wrote for the market environment two years ago. I pay you to be in the now, to make me money for the now. And right now,” you soften your voice, “we have an interesting opportunity.”

He sits back down, some semblance of calm returning. Maybe he knows he’s on thin ice. He better.

You continue, “This is going to require some work on your part. I have a  _hunch_ that SoporCola is going to have a very bad quarter, and so we need to dump all of our stock and predict market reaction.”

“Okay. Tho-what? We can just put in a sell order and be ready to re-th-pond to market fluctuations.”

“Well, the trick of this is that… SoporCola’s under close monitoring by the exchange commission, and if we dump our stock now, it might  _look_ like we had insider information.”

“Do we?”

“You didn’t ask me that question.”

He looks at you for a second, uncertain, then proceeds as instructed. “Well what time does this information become public? It’s not hard for me to code a program just to th-ell everything off at a certain time.”

You rub your hands. “Don’t know. They are obfuscating the release time in order to even the playing field and avoid giving anyone an edge.”

“So… you need me to trigger the trade ba-sth-ed on the relea-th-e?”

“Exactly.”

“Where does-th the report appear?”

“Typically on their website.”

He pauses for a second, looking far off. He asks, “Okay. Is there a s-th-chema they use for the file path? I could write a program to jus-th-t continually ping the URL until it doesn’t return a 404 error code and trigger based on that.”

You… aren’t sure exactly what he means. You know what a URL is, but… “Keeping up with the specifics of websites is your job, not mine.”

He makes a face.

You don’t blink, staring him down.

He breaks first. The programmers always do. He sighs. “Okay. I can have you s-th-omething by tomorrow. That’ll give us a day to tes-th-t it out and to s-th-ee how the information impacts my algorithm's market reaction projections-th.”

You stand up and walk around the desk, standing next to his chair. Your hand hovers above his shoulder for a second as you stare down, trying to gauge how clean the shirt is. You swallow, and grip his shoulder, hard. “There’s a lot of opportunity here Psii.” You dig your fingernails ever so slightly into his shoulder, adding, “So don’t fuck this up.”

But he’s not looking at you. He’s looking down at your shoes.

‘ _Can’t even look a man in the eyes,’_ you think. “Do you get me?” you ask, annoyed.

He looks back up, grinning. “I think I do.”

 


	3. Chapter 3

Sleep used to include dreams. But, as you’ve gotten older (and, if you’re being honest, as you’ve taken to falling asleep tanked on the regular), the subconscious films that played behind your eyeballs started getting more and more sliced up, snippets of your life mixed with surreal aspects.

Last night’s broken lens theater starred your father’s former VP of operations, Benelz Zulanz. The youngest man to ever become VP at your father’s company.

Youngest to get fired too.

And he’s… well... not someone you’ve not thought about in a while. As you kick the sheets off you, birds singing their obnoxious morning songs outside your window, you wonder whatever happened to him--how he’s doing, what he’s up to these days. If he ever settled down and got married. If he had kids like your little monsters. If he got old and fat.

If he remembers.

If he thinks fondly.

You shake your head and swallow.

‘ _Don’t be stupid,_ ’ you think, dipping your head under the shower stream, trying to rouse yourself from your shitty half-excuse for R.E.M.

It’s all coming in flashes now, seemingly whether you want it to or not.

You’d really prefer not.

But… he always smelled so good. Like… what a man was supposed to smell like. What a wealthy man was supposed to smell like. Clean and maybe a little bit floral, but with a richness that you… You swallow. It’s strange how strong the memory of scent is, you think.

And you…. Your Dad had given you the job. Had taken pity on you really. You tried to strike out on your own, forge your own path.  After bad luck mixed with bad economy mixed with bad business plans, you’d had nowhere else to turn to. After seven months of not calling home, you’d finally lifted the receiver.

“Mom… do you think you could talk to Dad?” you had asked, so ashamed you couldn’t ask him yourself.

And, of course, she had. And, of course, he had “found” you this position in his company.

And that’s how you met Benelz with his olfactory opiate.

He’d noticed your gaze of course, your interest. Took you under his wing. Explained the in’s and out’s of the business. Much more than your father ever had.

It was all a game. An information game. Your job was to manage risk. You could do that one of two ways: mitigate your own financial risk, or cause risk for someone else. Either way, you could profit.

And then, one evening while you were going over some numbers, he started asking whether or not you were seeing any girls.

You were dating at the time, you explained, but nothing serious.

He nodded solemnly. That really was the best way to go, he agreed. And then, as if it was the most natural transition in the world, he took out his semi-hard downward curving cock.

And you remember how hard your heartbeat in your chest, a bird singing a desperate song. You swallowed.

“Since you’ve got nothing serious going on, maybe we might scratch each other’s backs.”

Up until that point, it hadn’t ever really connected. The fact you… well, you don’t like to think about the words that are necessary to describe it. But when that light went on, there was no mistaking what it was.

In retrospect, you wonder if he had some ulterior motive--becoming fuckbuddies with the boss’s son. Business was business after all.

You look in the mirror, at your tired, sunken eyes.

The two of you had gotten sloppy; “working late” in his office. Taking lunches that ran for two to three hours, and oddly involved you both coming back freshly showered. The thought of it now makes you cringe. But no one in the office seemed to say anything.

Maybe they thought  _you_  were taking advantage of  _him_.

And then, one night, as you were both leaving from a late night “work session,” you ran into your father in the elevator. He was making his way down after a long day of… well, doing whatever it was that he actually did. And… you’d been lazy. You hadn’t taken separate elevators. Hell, you’d not even fully buttoned your shirt back up. And… well… there was a not insignificantly sized hickey on your neck. At the time you thought you’d done an OK enough job at covering it up with your shirt collar, but, in retrospect…

He, for better or for worse, he hadn’t said a word.

But the pink-slip was there waiting for Benelz in the morning.

When you found out, like an inconceivable asshole, you decided to try to intervene. You marched into your Dad’s office, unannounced.

“Benelz is one of your best employees,” you explained. “It’s sheer stupidity to fire him.”

You look down, watching the toothpaste swirl down the sink drain. ‘ _Stop_ ,’ you think.

But it doesn’t You remember Dad listening to you go on and on, singing the man’s praises. He calmly stood up from his side of desk, then walked over to one of the paintings of seascapes he had up in his office. The one by the human artist, Turner.

Turner paintings are still hard to look at.

You rub your jaw.

You remember the feeling of carpet on your face. Not being sure how you came to be laying on the floor--why your face felt so hot.

The words didn’t entirely make sense when you first heard them.

“I didn’t bring you on board to be the company cocksucker."

You suck in air through clenched teeth. 

\------

It’s Thursday, and you’d be lying if you didn’t say you were starting to get a little nervous. The menial tasks of the morning kept your mind off the giant unknown of SoporCola and tomorrow, but you have a lull in your calendar this afternoon, so your mind has had time to wander.

The caffeine you’ve been pouring into your system has been kerosene on your nervous energy. You are up, pacing back and forth in your office, something that used to drive your first wife crazy. It helps you think, or at least, feel like you are doing something.   

There’s a lot riding on all of this. If the program works, but works too quickly, it might raise suspicions. It might mean an investigation. ‘ _Vriska wouldn’t flip would she?_ ’ you wonder. Maybe, maybe not. You’d only trust her as far as you could throw her. But Captor… he would probably crack and confess to things he didn’t even do. Sure, you could probably wiggle out of actually jail time with a slap on the wrist and some fines… but what then?

Even if you were able to hide your tracks,  _Condesce Investments_ would still use it as a competitive advantage. They’d never impugn your company outright, of course. Instead, it would be a subtle knife in your jugular, “Invest with a company you can  _trust_ ,” said with a wink and a nod. The ‘not like those  _other guys_ ’ left unspoken.

You stare daggers at the skyline of the city. ‘ _Not like she isn’t just as dirty._ ’ you think.

And then, there’s the flip side. If the program is too slow to react--if you get beaten to the punch. It’s not just that you’ll lose money on that trade. It likely means that all of your projections for how other investments firms are going to respond will also be off. There will be a cascade effect, and well… it won’t tank you entirely, but one thing is for certain, it will likely be the beginning of the end.

You’ll be okay, of course. You’ve got money squirreled away in a handful of secret banking accounts on the human planet, far outside the jurisdiction of the regional economic authorities--a trick you figured out after the first divorce. But still… losing your business. It would be… tough.

You’d be ruined on this planet. True. Never work again. But…. you suppose you could always relocate. The human planet isn’t terrible. Parts of it have warm climates and decent enough beaches. And the exchange rate is decent enough that you could probably afford a  _small_  mansion near the water.    

But all of this… it means will mean you’ve failed. Failed at business. Failed as a troll. Resigned to live as an outsider among a lesser species.  

You blink and realize you’re chewing on your nails. You unclench your jaw and shake your hand, disgusted with yourself.

You decide you need to go for a walk.

\------

 

When you step off the elevator onto the third floor it takes you a second to remember how all of this is laid out. The offices are all down the hall and… something about servers? You’re not sure exactly. Surely you’ve been down here since you took over the building six years ago?

You walk down the hallway like you know exactly where you are going. There’s bound to a be a secretary somewhere along the way. As you make your way down, you start to feel cold air. Goosebumps stand up on your neck as you move further in. There’s an open door there on the left.

“I’m not paying for you to stand there with the refrigerator door wide open,” you can hear your father’s voice saying.

You turn your head and see dozens of large black blinking boxes, blue cabling coming out from every direction. Three ten-something-sweep trolls are standing around the boxes, engrossed in some kind of debate.

“Look, I’m telling you to just think about. Human wrestling,  _isn’t real_. They are obviously faking it.”

“But look, what if they aren’t? I mean. What if they conscript their elite into fights in order to entertain the masses and keep their blood lust satiated?”

“Are you really that fucking dumb?” the third asks.

“Hey, fuck off. I’m just saying.”

You clear your throat and three heads turn to you, obviously startled. “Mr. Dualscar! Sir! Uh, what can we do for you?” one asks.

“Where’s Psii’s desk?”

They look at each other for a second. “Go to the end of the hall and take a left. That’s the cubicle farm. His is at the far end, uh, on the right.”

You nod. They stare at you like startled rabbits.

In an almost perfunctory tone, you add, “And get back to work.” Like you have any clue what it is they are actually doing.

The three turn around and hurriedly examine one of the black boxes.

You continue down the hall and walk into the honeycomb of cubicles. There’s a manic clatter of keys being pressed; an odd, off-beat rhythm section, accompanying the wildly different songs being played over computer speakers in the cube-farm.

All the oarsmen of your vessel, rowing to cacophonic noise.

You clench your hands. Already this is obnoxious.

You walk with purpose down to the far end of the cubicle wall. There, at the end corner, you find Psii, engrossed in one of his six monitors--the one with the multi-colored three dimensional bar chart.

You clear your throat.

He doesn’t turn around.

You take in what must be a half dozen empty Red Bull cans sitting on his desk. You cringe, disgusted that he can’t even bother to get them to the trash can.

“Captor.” You finally say.

He lets out a small mumble of acknowledgement, but barely moves.

You grit your teeth. Being ignored, well, it’s not your strong suit. You clear your throat again. “ _Psii,”_ you hiss, loudly.

That got his attention. He spins around in his chair and almost jumps out of his seat.

“Jeguth, you could have told me you were coming down here.”

There’s a black picture frame on the desk with photos of school age kids. The resemblance to Psii is uncanny. “Cute kids. They must get it from their mom.”

He turns and glares at you, unresponsive.

‘ _Okay, so much for a joke._ ’ “I’ve got two myself.” You pause and add, “They’re a pain in the ass.”

“They mu-th-t get it from you,” he says without missing a beat. No hint of a smile.

You clear your throat. ‘ _Well isn’t this going just swimmingly._ ’  You blow air through your lips. “I... wanted to check to see how things are coming along.”

Psii leans back from his cubicle and peers around the corner. He looks back at you. “We should grab one of the conference room-th.” He nods his head towards the corner door.

You follow his lead, walk down the hall, shut the door behind you.

He runs a hand through his hair, collapsing into a swivel chair. You notice the prominent bags under his eyes. He doesn’t look like he’s slept an awful lot. “The program i-th done. That part took me five minute-th. But, I’ve been running some new modeling equation-th to try to narrow down the number of likely th-enarios in order to optimize th-ub-th-equent trading.” He pauses, thinks, then continues, “My projections th-uggest that if the news gets relea-th-ed in the morning, there will be a large th-ell off of not just Th-oporCola, but also of the re-th-traunt industry, touri-th-m, and con-th-ruction. Then by afternoon, the market will likely boun-th-e back.”

“Tourism?” you ask.

“The data show-th that many of the major traders will likely dump all of their holdings related to frivilou-th expenditure. My model ha-th a th-ignificance level of theventyth-even percent. We can definitely beat the market.”

You cringe at the lisp. It’s like… he’s almost whistling it sometimes. But… almost eight in ten. You like those odds. “What happens if they release in the afternoon?”

He takes in a deep breath. “Well, then thing-th get a little more gray.”

“How so?”

“Well, with the shorter timescale before market close, it's harder to to be entirely certain of who will do what. Companies might read the report as a fluke and not indicative of the market, or people’s willingness to part with their cash. More time would mean more time to worry--investors are more likely to get uncomfortable. But, if they don’t have that time, they may just dump their Sopor stock and move on. We will still be the first movers there--but we probably won’t make major gains from the predicting the rest of the market.”

“Okay, cut to the chase, what’s the overall strength of the prediction?”

He pauses for a second, looks to the corner of the room. “I’d e-th-timate…. Fifty-three per-thent likelyhood we will make money.”

 

A heavy silence falls between the two of you.

“You… are saying you can’t predict what will happen any better than a coin-flip?”

He gives a shrug. “I was up until three in the morning trying to get a few extra percentage points out of the model.”

“Unacceptable. Un- _fucking_ -acceptable.” You can feel the vein in your neck bulging out.

He throws his hands up in the air, as if begging the heavens. “Look, I can’t make thing-th just happen! I don’t have a magic wand okay?!?”

You draw in a deep breath, "I don't pay you to tell me to choose heads or fucking tails. I pay you to  _make the future_. And if you don’t make me the future, your ass is going to be out on the corner."

He crosses his arms, the vein on his forehead sticking out now. “Oh, i-th that what you think?”

You blink, uncomprehending at first. “I beg your pardon?”

“You want me to make the future? Well here it i-th. I’m th-ick and tired of your fucking threat-th. That stops now.”

You laugh, actually laugh. ‘ _This little shit,_ ’ you think. “I don’t take guff from pissbloods like you, you’re fir--”

“I know about the bookstore,” he interrupts.  

Frozen. You are completely and utterly frozen in place.

“That-th right jacka-tthh. I know all about what you do when you think no one’s watching.”

You swallow a large dry lump in your throat. “Look, I think you must have me mistaken for som-”

“Oh there’s no mi-th-taking it. You went in and got your dick th-ucked. Normally I don’t care what other people do in their private time. But I’m not going to th-it here and get bullied by some a-tthh-hole for thing-th I can’t control.”  

You clear your throat, trying again, in a quieter voice this time. “I think you have me confused with someone el--”

He rolls his eyes. “Do you want to tell me what color your underwear wa-th?”

Click, click, go the wheels inside your head. ‘ _How could he possibly…_ ’ You look down. His shoes. ‘ _Oh… oh **holy shit**._ ’

 


End file.
